Haunted
by fischfrau
Summary: Unfinished piece I've written about a year ago. Soap and Ghost have a few drinks.


He knew he had crossed a critical threshold when he saw the look on his friend's face. So full of hatred, of agony, fueled by shadows and uncertainty.

Soap had never seen him like this before. All they had done were some drinking games, a few foul jokes here and there, a few innuendoes. The usual things.

And suddenly, Ghost had been at his throat, hands clutching onto it tightly, making it very difficult for MacTavish to get some precious air back into his lungs. Those troubled and pained features were cruel to look at and robbed the captain of his strength. His hands tried in vain to remove Ghost's fingers from his throat, his legs were thrashing about uselessly.

_Calm down, mate_, he mouthed, a few strangled sounds leaving his lips in the process. The alcohol in his veins was singing to him and soon he held completely still, just letting Ghost do whatever he wanted. His torso burned as Soap struggled to remain conscious and it seemed as if the lack of oxygen would finally send him into blissful blackness, but then Ghost eventually let go of him.

Soap knew that prior to joining the 141, Ghost had experienced some awful things. He knew that there still wasn't everything alright in that English head of his, but he had never ever expected anything like that to happen. Disbelief was clearly showing on his face when he watched Ghost rearrange his chair and simply sit back down on it again, as if nothing had ever happened.

Still having difficulties with breathing, he sat up on his butt and asked raggedly, "What the hell was that for, mate?!"

Of course he wasn't surprised when he got no answer at all.

Slowly, Soap stood and took a seat as well. Ghost was bracing his arms on the dirty table, hands holding his head, covering his face. Small shivers went through him from time to time. Was it the alcohol?

"I think it would be better if you talked," Soap advised warily and took a sip of his cheap booze. Probably wasn't the best idea, but at that moment, he didn't really care. Whatever happened back there with Ghost kinda... scared him.

"I think it would be better if I ended all of it now," came the low and forced reply, and Ghost wheezed a few breaths through his clenched teeth. "It's always the faces. Their faces. That madman's face..."

Finally, Ghost looked him in the eyes, and the icy blue mirrors of his soul were cracked and haunted. Naked.

"Shit, Simon. Don't look at me like that. You're creeping me out." Inwardly, Soap cursed himself for the bullshit he had just said. That really wasn't the best way of comforting your disturbed buddy.

Simon seemed absorbed in his thoughts now, his stare was endless and empty. One of his hands trailed over the surface of the table, towards Soap. Unsettled, the captain flinched when it touched one of his arms and then went up to his face, his chin, his lips-

"_Give us a kiss_," he breathed absently, caressing Soap's mouth. In his intoxicated state, MacTavish didn't really mind _physically_, but a chilling feeling lingered at the back of his mind. This was not right. This was wrong. He had to stop this.

"Simon," he whispered half-heartedly, "Please, Simon, stop it." The thumb traced the outline of his lower lip, the other fingers were stroking his cheek. A pang of anxiety raced down his spine as he realized that Ghost was still not completely _there_. Apparently he was having some kind of flashback or daydream. He feared that if he touched his friend now, this state of trance would end violently and as such, Soap only hoped that this all would come to an end pretty soon.

All of a sudden, Simon stood and crossed the distance between the two, nudging the table aside to sit down on Soap's lap. The captain's senses were a bit unresponsive at that moment, because if he had been sober, there would have been no way in hell that Riley ever got to sit on him.

And shit, why was Ghost's flushed face so handsome all of a sudden? Why was the weight on his legs so comfortable and yet so welcome?

The mouth came down on his in a split second, effectively sealing his lips up so that no single objection could leave them. Strangely, Soap was sober enough to look into Simon's eyes while they were kissing, and now all of the previous pain was gone, replaced by something different...

"Oh _fuck," _Soap spat as soon as they had parted to breathe properly again. "What the fuck's going on in that goddamn head of yours?"

The only response he got was the odd movement of Ghost's ass that made him hiss in anticipation.

"You cannot be serious, English," he growled agitatedly, grabbing a fistful of Simon's hair and pulling. Blue eyes met his own at a weird angle, and this only added fuel to the alcohol-induced fire that was raging within Soap's body.

The voice was a whisper, barely audible, "Have you never thought of shagging me before?"

Of course he had, good ass was rare in his business sector, and restrictions reduced his desires to stray thoughts, but there was no way he would admit it to that shifty bastard-

"They did. They said I was good. A nice toy. I want to show you."

"Simon, _snap out of it_, fucking_ hell_! This is reality! Let go of the past!"

Naturally, his friend didn't listen. Oh shit, how was he supposed to interact normally with that guy after he'd really gone through with his intention?


End file.
